


The Art of Grooming

by ChronicallyOwlish



Category: Andromeda (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Friendship/Love, Sexual Tension, Spa Day, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-23
Updated: 2018-03-23
Packaged: 2019-04-06 20:55:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14065404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChronicallyOwlish/pseuds/ChronicallyOwlish
Summary: Beka's spa day with Trance is interrupted by one Tyr Anasazi.





	The Art of Grooming

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Hermit9](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hermit9/gifts).



> Happy Birthday, Hermit! I know it is a day late, but it grew. I hope you enjoy.

Castiel Drift has always been one of Beka’s favorite ports of call. When she was a child, she’d clung to Rafe’s hand and stared at the people passing through the checkpoint in front of her. Perseids and Than, at least a half a dozen other species, dressed in clothing ranging from typical to exotic, their voices rising and falling in a cacophony of different languages, pops, and clicks. When they’d gotten through she’d turned her chin towards the bulkheads where they'd dripped in color and light. Teardrop shaped lanterns, flags, and thousands of twinkling bulbs on thin strands had zigzagged over the throng. 

The drift hasn’t changed much over the years. It’s still cleaner and more organized than most—a selling point they advertise heavily. The hawkers in the docking ring still call out their wares from tables piled high with everything from clothing to parts, and the air is still thick with spicy cooking smells.

“God I love Cas Drift,” she says, raising her voice to be heard above the crowd. “Our appointment is in ten minutes so we can’t really stick around here.”

Trance is distracted, her eyes on a table full of shimmering crystal figurines and dangling trinkets that catch the light. There is one in particular, a smiling sun, that’s caught Trance’s eye. She lifts a finger to it and touches it gently with a smile that says she’s light years away from here. In that look, Beka sees the younger, purple Trance who’d always found the stalls and shops with the prettiest things in them.

“Right, ten minutes,” Trance mutters.

Beka narrows her eyes and studies her friend. Spacy Trance is spacy. Normal levels, or something of epic proportions is about to happen and she isn’t telling anyone levels? Because Beka could really use a day off. It warrants keeping an eye on.

“You okay?” A note of concern slips into Beka’s voice and Trance looks up. She meets Beka’s gaze and her dark eyes give nothing away. They never do.

Trance flashes her credit chip at the shopkeeper to scan, pockets the sun trinket and gives Beka a warm smile. “I’m fine. You’re right, we should get going.”

And then they are on the lifts, rising to the upper decks where a weary space traveler can indulge in a little of Cas Drift’s famed affordable luxury. Being the first officer on Andromeda doesn’t pay much, but with room and board taken care of and all of the Maru’s needs met, for the first time in her life, all of Beka’s income is disposable… as long as she ignores the stack of interstellar violations piling up on her record. So, indulge she will. She’s earned it.

The corridors here are bright, wide, and pristine. Unlike the masses below pushing at each other to get where they are going, people mill about here in ones and twos, speaking in hushed voices and passing in and out of boutiques and salons with wide windows. The windows are decorated with elaborate displays or silk drapes in various shades of whites and pastels. Everything is designed to feel rich. To feel comforting.

“This is nice. We haven’t done the girl thing in a while.” Beka is proud of how she keeps the guilt out of her voice. It’s been almost a year and it isn’t Trance’s fault. Beka’d had a hard time accepting the woman who’d come back from the future and replaced her younger self. She’d had trouble finding the gentle soul buried inside Trance’s hardened now-golden exterior. But in the end, she had. It was just a matter of making the time.

If Trance blamed her or held any ill-will, she kept it to herself, hidden behind that gentle smile. “It is nice.”

Their stop is a spa a couple of meters down. Its windows are draped in pearl with dangling disks of silver and gold. The door is an open archway. Women wearing long skirts that swish on the carpet-covered deckplates and crop tops that show off their well-sculpted stomachs move about patrons in plush leather chairs with pools of bubbling water at their feet. One is buffing nails, another carefully running a paint wand over freshly pedicured toenails. Goosebumps form as Beka thinks about the treat she’s in for.

A pretty redhead with straight locks hanging about her shoulders and a professional smile approaches them. “How can I help you?”

Beka nods. “We have an appointment. I set it up under Beka Valentine.”

“Yes, we’ve been expecting you. If you’ll come back here we’ll give you a locker to store your things.

They are led into a room with lockers and a plush leather bench in the center. From here, Beka can still see the front. As she removes her boots, she keeps a lookout. There is no danger here—or shouldn’t be—but old habits die hard. One black sock comes off, and then the other, and from the corner of her eye she catches a flash of silver against deep golden brown.

“What the hell…” she mutters as she does a double take. Tyr Anasazi steps into the lobby, towering over everyone there, and a woman with dark curls and rose-tinged brown skin meets him like he’s an old friend. Of course he’s here. Why wouldn’t he be?

She turns to Trance, but before she can say anything, Trance’s comm goes off and Harper’s voice, tinny through the device, fills the small room. “Trance, where are you? You promised you’d help, and I promised Dylan this’d be ready tomorrow.”

Eyes wide, Beka tries to convey through her expression, because she suspects that Tyr’s hearing is that good, that Trance should not, under any circumstances, leave her here alone with him. Out in the lobby, Tyr is sharing greetings with the attendant, only the tiniest of smiles breaking through his serious exterior. 

With an apologetic frown Trance pulls her comm from her belt and flips it on. “Harper, I completely forgot.” She shrugs at Beka and really does look properly contrite with her forehead all wrinkled and the frown still in place. “I’ll be there in a few minutes. I am so sorry.”

First, she tries appealing to Trance’s sense of loyalty. “We had plans.”

“I promised Harper I would help before we made plans and it completely slipped my mind. I have been distracted lately. I’m so sorry Beka, but this means a lot to him.”

Damn. She doesn’t want throw Harper under the bus here. He’s been trying to stay on Dylan’s good side since racing the Andromeda a few weeks ago and has succeeded so far. No doubt, Trance feels a sense of obligation for her participation as the sidekick in his night shift escapades. But she’s desperate, so she turns to begging. “Trance, please. Stay for a while at least, tell Harper you’ll come later.”

Trance slips her boots back on. Tyr has finished speaking and the attendant is leading him back to the locker room. Beka’s tone is panicked, but she tries to put as much Captain Valentine in as she can. “Come on. Stay. Don’t do this to me.”

A shake of Trance’s head dashes all of Beka’s hopes. “I can’t, I will make it up to you. I promise. This could be fun—you never know,” she says with another shrug and a wink and leaves, nodding to Tyr on her way out. 

No. She couldn’t have winked. Not possible. Sweet, loyal Trance wouldn’t do this to her on purpose. Then again, Trance might be prone to distraction, but she isn’t forgetful. Beka also can’t recall Harper working on any recent projects of note. What could be so important that he needed to have it done tomorrow when they were on shore-leave? 

Then it hits her and she suddenly understands Trance’s distraction earlier.

Those two are going to die. She’s going to kill them both and she’ll figure out a way to make it stick with Trance.

“Tyr, hi,” she says as he approaches, her register much higher than it needs to be. A huge, fake smile is pasted on her face and it hurts to keep it there. By the arch of his left eyebrow and the half smirk pulling at the side of his incredibly full lips, she’s pretty sure he heard everything.

A few moments of awkward silence later and they are led to their chairs. It’s almost impossible for her to reconcile what she is seeing: a sculpted alpha-male who carries a gun half her size on missions and normally wears chainmail for the fun of it is lounging against the plush leather with his feet soaking in the tub. The attendant he’d spoken to earlier examines fingernails that hardly looked like they need grooming as another brings over a tray with multi-colored bottles and instruments.

Still, she came here to be pampered and intends to reap the benefits of it. Besides, he doesn’t seem eager to talk. Strangely, that bothers her. If he is going to show up and ruin her girl’s day out, the least he can do is talk to her.

The red-headed attendant, Pheobe, begins to massage her forearm and hands, rubbing lotion that smells like flowers and heaven into her skin. It awakens every nerve. Reminds her it has been too long since she’s been touched intimately by anyone. Goosebumps form and the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. Carefully, so he doesn’t notice, she studies Tyr. His face is stoic, an expression that must take a lot of effort because she can see in his half-closed eyes and the way his muscles are bristling, how much he is enjoying himself. If he were a different sort of mammal, he’d be grunting or purring right now.

A smile comes to her face. A tiny amused thing, hardly there at all. All of the effort he puts into maintaining his tough assassin’s demeanor and he is melting like putty in a salon chair. The amusement makes her brave. “Didn’t think you were the type to spend an afternoon at the spa.”

There is a slight tensing of his muscles telling her she’s struck a nerve. He hadn’t expected her to be here either. Success. His expression remains the same. “It isn’t about being pampered.”

Sure it isn’t.

Snip. Snip. The attendant clips her cuticles then moves around to the next hand. She has the practiced expression of someone pretending not to listen while hearing everything. It isn’t always that Beka can make Tyr uncomfortable in front of an audience, and sometimes his smugness needs to be taken down a couple of notches. So she presses. “So what’s it about?”

Another attendant approaches with the tools and bottles for her pedicure. She sits on a bench in front of Beka and picks her foot up out of the bath, dries it with a warm towel, and begins to rub some sort of heated oil into her heels. A gentle groan escapes and she closes her eyes, feeling herself sink into the chair a little bit more.

Tyr’s voice is warm like the oil when he speaks and she is so focused on its tenor that she almost misses what he says. Almost.

“It is about finding a mate.”

Her eyes snap open, and if she isn’t mistaken, the attendant now massaging the sole of her foot falters. Way to be subtle, Tyr. Then again, a man who marches into battle with is own personal soundtrack can’t be expected to be subtle. There are many things she can say, but none of them pass through her mental filter. It’s her turn to be uncomfortable in front of an audience.

“Strength, cunning, intelligence; these things are important, but it is the exterior that a potential mate sees first. A person well versed in the art of grooming is more likely to attract the strongest, most attractive mates. They will then have strong, attractive babies to continue their line.” His voice is smooth and his cadence casual. This is no grand pronouncement. It is merely fact.

“I see,” she says, because it is all she can come up with.

The next foot is now out of the bath and receiving the same treatment as the first. It’s difficult to concentrate. When she looks over, she can see the attendant’s fingers massaging Tyr’s skin and her brain keeps trying to imagine what his skin might feel like under her palms.

“I have noticed that you, too, pay close attention to your grooming. You wear clothing and jewelry that augment a figure you work hard to maintain, and you keep your hair and nails well maintained.”

God. Damn. Him.

Her heart flutters in her chest wholly independent of her mind, which is being quite reasonable and telling her to run. But the attendant at her side is now painting her fingernails with a clear, protective coat and the one at her feet is clipping her toenails. She’s trapped.

Okay, no need to panic. She can just refuse to answer. No harm done. She doesn’t have to let him do this again. Let him draw her in with sideways compliments and ridiculous smirks. Let him fill her with desire and hope for a relationship that can only end in tears.

And it works. For a while, at least. The pampering continues in silence and she tries to focus on what is happening with her hands and feet because the rest of her body is a mess of heat and flutters and breaths that are shorter than they need to be. Her imagination has betrayed her too, running through a list of what-ifs. When she allows herself to look at him, a half smirk rests on his face, because he knows what he has done to her.

“Dinner?” Tyr asks, as the attendants begin to clean up their tools, and Beka’s head snaps in his direction.

“Excuse me?” Beka the logical is telling her mouth to say no, but Beka the emotional wreck, who is desperate for intimate connection even if it never gets physical, begs her to press on. This Beka wants to know, despite inevitable doom, what Tyr is all about.

“It is almost dinner time. I was asking if you would like to have it with me. I have reservations at Cavanaugh’s and it won’t be too much trouble to extend the reservation to two. I have...worked with the owner before.”

Ignoring the references to his past as an assassin, she tries to buy time to think. “You were going to have dinner at the most expensive and romantic restaurant on Cas Drift alone?” He doesn’t miss her incredulous tone, and if she looks hard enough, she thinks she can see a hint of self-consciousness. 

Ha! He does care what she thinks.

Before she can change her mind, she answers, “Sure. Why not, I’ll have dinner with you.”

Because there was never a chance she’d answer any other way, and the slight twitch of his lips tells her he’d known all along.

**Author's Note:**

> A big thank you to Hermit and Corru who encouraged this plot bunny. I still can't believe I wrote this and that I somehow made it serious xD. You guys are awesome!


End file.
